


transmogrification (the heart lies still)

by nezstorm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Curses, Developing Relationship, Fae & Fairies, Feral Peter, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wolf Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 15:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14060019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/pseuds/nezstorm
Summary: Stiles wasn't sure how he knew the brown beast of a wolf strutting towards him out of the woods was Peter.--Or the one where Stiles had plans, but Peter messed it up with wolf slobber.





	1. Chapter 1

They were all out in the Preserve, in a clearing not far from the remains of the Hale House, celebrating that all of them were finally home for the summer. Most of them stayed within the state for college, either attending the local community college, or Berkley like Stiles. But with classes, coursework and finals, time when they could all get together and goof around was sparse. 

 

On one side of the clearing, Derek was giving the grill his best Alpha glare, looking as close to pouting as Stiles had ever seen him, even as Isaac tried to distract him so Boyd could intervene and save their lunch. 

 

Away from the smoke, Lydia was sitting on a big plaid blanket with Allison in front of her, head bowed for Lydia to arrange flowers in her hair. They kept half an eye on Cora and Scott sparring of to the side, while Stiles and Erica egged them on. 

 

Stiles laughed as he watched his best friend charge at Cora, only for her to jump over his back, pushing off him hard enough that Scotty literally ate dirt. 

 

He felt so wonderfully at ease like this, after all the stress of freshman year, keeping deadlines and his grades up, while simultaneously fending off creatures of the night on a monthly basis. Now he had his friends close, within reach and there to poke fun at. He had Erica's nimble fingers scratching his scalp, and even his mediocre, human nose could tell that Boyd's burgers would be divine. 

 

All he missed was a certain v-neck enthusiast to snark with and steal sips of wine from, but Peter was Peter, and more than fashionably late. 

 

This time around though, the werewolf would have a legitimate excuse. 

 

\---

  
  


Stiles wasn't sure  _ how  _ he knew the brown beast of a wolf strutting towards him out of the woods was Peter. 

 

There was something unnervingly familiar about it, and most of his supernaturally-inclined friends were at his side, ready to attack and defend.

 

It could have been the piercing blue eyes that Stiles knew so well he’d recognize them anywhere,  or the way they honed in on Stiles almost immediately. Like it couldn’t care less about a pack of wolves ready to skin it the moment it stepped out of line, or the hunter with a dagger in each hand, just itching to throw one of them. As if the only danger was losing track of Stiles.

  
  


It could have been the sassy trademark Hale eyeroll the wolf somehow managed when Isaac proclaimed that this wasn't just a wolf standing before them, all of them either relaxing at that or making indignant noises. 

  
  


It could have been that, out of all that approached it to make sure of who it was, Stiles was the only one allowed to touch. 

  
  


What Stiles  _ was  _ certain of though, was that this was not how he planned for his summer vacation to start. 

  
  


He sighed loudly, tugged at one brown ear and asked, resigned:

  
  


"Who did you piss off this time 'round?"

  
  


Quite obviously, Peter couldn’t tell them how he ended up transformed into a wolf, a fact that he rather skilfully demonstrated with a completely blank expression that Stiles translated as:

  
  


“You’re an idiot,” and closely followed by an eyeroll that engaged Peter’s whole head, which either meant “My life,” or “Why do I even bother with any of you?”. 

  
  


Stiles took offence to the latter and jabbed one long finger into Peter’s-- muzzle. 

  
  


“Quit with the attitude, Creeperwolf. You’re the one with the hair problem,” he snapped and then squawked, much to everybody’s amusement, when Peter caught the offending digit with his teeth, nipping it gently in reprimand.

 

Stiles wasn’t sorry at all about surreptitiously wiping the saliva on Isaac’s scarf.

 

They made Peter show them the place where he happened on the person or being that had decided that he was better off on four paws, and limited to gnawing on appendages and slobber in place of his usual level of sass. Once they got there, the werewolves spread out following the trace of ozone and bluebells found on the scene, while Allison and Lydia inspected the remains of Peter’s clothes. 

 

All they found was Peter’s phone and wallet, both handed over to Stiles for safekeeping, and no trace of whoever it was that put the spell on Peter. 

 

Stiles sighed and looked at the wolf sitting at his side, seeming thoroughly bored with the proceedings, but his ears betrayed him; the way they were perked up proved he was listening intently.

 

Stiles flicked one of them to get Peter’s attention.

 

“Looks like you’re up for a visit at the vet’s,” he said, not even trying to suppress the smirk curving his lips.

 

His amusement lasted all the way back to the cars, all through Peter playfully nipping at his heels, and until Peter stubbornly decided he’d be riding shotgun in the Jeep as per usual. Not that he’d actually fit, but Peter could be painfully obstinate about some things whenever he deemed it appropriate to be a dick.

 

It took Scott and Derek manhandling him, and Erica pushing Stiles into the backseat when he wasn’t paying attention, to get them into the car. Stiles ended up squished between the side of the car and a wall of fur breathing hotly in his face.

 

“Oh my god, Peter, your breath is rank,” Stiles gagged, turned his face as far away as he could, “Did you go scavenging before coming to us? Is that Bambi I smell? No, don’t you even d-- Peter,  _ you mutt _ !”

 

Erica and Scott laughed at his squawking from the safety of the front seats, and best friends or not, Stiles was adamant on giving them a taste of Peter’s wolf slobber as well. Right after he showered three hundred times to get the stench off his skin. 

 

When they finally reached the clinic Stiles made  a beeline for one of the sinks, scrubbing his face vigorously until it felt tender and new, and only then joined the others to listen to Deaton hum and haw over Peter, much to the wolfe’s growing agitation.

 

If Stiles didn’t know for a fact that Peter hated the vet and didn’t trust him one bit, he’d interpret Peter’s growling and snapping of teeth as the wolf being upset about even being there. He couldn’t fault him at all for that behavior, especially when the vet came up with all of nothing disguised as a cryptic phrase or two.

 

They all watched as Deaton checked Peter’s aura and shot off names of magical beings until Peter growled at the mention of “fae”. The suspect confirmed by the residue scent of ozone and bluebells the wolves had smelled at the scene. 

 

“Do you have to offend everyone you meet?” Derek asked, expression resigned in the face of his uncle’s dispassionate shrug. At least, Stiles thought it was a shrug, or as close as a wolf could even get to attempting one.

 

“Is there a way to turn him back?” Stiles piped in, only realizing how tense he was when Peter briefly pressed against his leg.

 

Peter had kept close to Stiles the whole of their visit, plopped between him and Deaton, and looking like he had murder on his mind if the vet came too close to him again.

 

Stiles took a deep breath and willed himself to relax, resting a hand on the top of Peter's head in thanks.

 

"While fae magic is very powerful," Deaton explained, "when the intention behind it is nonlethal, it usually just needs to run its course. I suspect," the vet said as he tugged his gloves off with a snap and disposed of them in a nearby bin, "that Peter will be back to normal soon enough."

 

“How long do we wait?" Stiles asked. The  _ before we get really worried _ , heavily implied.

 

“I’d say two weeks before we get concerned.”

 

“Like this isn’t concerning at all,” Stiles muttered.

 

“If that’s all,” Deaton said and turned away in obvious dismissal. 

 

Stiles was glad to see Derek and Peter scowling at the vet’s back with him, though Peter backed it up with a growl.

 

Stiles empathized.

 

As they trickled out of the clinic, no one batted an eye when Stiles beckoned Peter to follow him with the intention of taking him home to keep an eye on him. Besides, none of them would actually volunteer for the job, no matter that Peter was actually considered pack these days. No one besides Derek, most probably, but those two cohabiting would only end in tears and carnage. 

 

“I’ll hit the books,” Stiles informed Scott as the three of them idled next to the Jeep.

 

“But Deaton said--”

 

“Exactly,” Stiles cut in. He didn’t put much trust into Deaton’s words on a good day, no matter how much faith Scott had in the man. Much less when Peter was concerned, “Don’t get me wrong, Scotty, Peter is adorable like this. Trying to scratch himself behind his ear with his leg--," he laughed at the resulting growl, "But he's of more use to all of us when he's less fluffy." 

 

"You also can't date him like this," Scott said, smiling knowingly. 

 

"Yeah," Stiles replied, brows pinched, as he rubbed the tip of a brown ear between two fingers, "There's that too." 

 

\---

 

They were already something, but nothing yet defined.

 

They might have both been waiting for a better time: for Stiles to settle into college, for Peter to carve a place for himself in the pack, for both of them to be less of a mess. 

 

But waiting didn’t mean they were keeping their attraction secret or spending time apart. 

 

Peter showed up at the dorms every other weekend to pull Stiles away from books and feed him something that wasn’t a cup of ramen or pizza, forced him out of his room to see a new movie or go shopping so Stiles could play the model to Peter’s fashion guru. Stiles for his part kept accosting Peter with ridiculous snapchats that Peter hardly ever replied to, but would bring up every so often, if only to see Stiles’ face flush.

 

Peter was also the one Stiles called on those rough, sleepless nights, waiting for Peter to tell him a few obscure supernatural stories, or just to listen to him breathe and have him there. 

 

His favorites were the nights where Peter just fell right back to sleep after making sure Stiles would be okay and would promptly start snoring.

 

He’s guilty of falling asleep with Peter still on the phone too, and he knew no better sound than Peter calling his name in a sleep-rough voice, telling him to get up and turn his fucking alarm off already.

 

But it's the best way Stiles wakes up ever, and if Peter's in a charitable mood, he admitted to it, too.

 

The charitable mood only ever appeared after his first coffee. 

 

Neither of them really cared about the huge phone bill they rack up.

 

(Peter had it covered.)

 

The rest of the pack was always able to  tell when they've been on the phone all night, because Peter was either less spiteful or even more so than usual, depending on how much he missed Stiles.

 

On the nights that brought  really bad nightmares, when Stiles woke up shaking and screaming, distantly relieved that he had a single room, Peter helped him catch his breath--

 

"-- seven, eight. Very good. Again."

 

\--as the werewolf dressed in a hurry to make the drive up to Berkley. Either so he could crawl into bed with Stiles and help him get back to sleep, or to bundle him up and take him for a walk, not really talking, just walking side by side as Stiles calmed down, before they went to get breakfast at Stiles' favorite pancake place.

 

Stiles would always skip his classes on those days, he wouldn't be able to focus anyway, and they'd spend the day together curled up in bed under the covers, not really paying attention to whatever they had put on the TV.

 

It got to a point where Stiles wasn't sure what they were still waiting for, why they hadn’t taken that last step over the nonexistent gap. He wanted to spend the summer figuring it out, so he could throw himself at Peter and engage in disgusting levels of PDA. Maybe even go on a real date or two. 

 

But that couldn't happen until Peter was bipedal again. 

 

\---

 

Stiles’ dad wasn’t exactly excited to house his son’s almost boyfriend for the foreseeable future, but other than that, he took the news of Peter getting cursed into being stuck as a wolf in stride. This wasn’t even the strangest thing he had had to deal with since he learned about the supernatural.

 

“This way I don’t really have to worry about what you two do behind closed door,” the sheriff said, then cringed and levelled them both with a stern look, “On second thought, no shenanigans under my roof.”

 

“Oh my god,  _ Dad _ !”

 

“Why are you making that face at me? You’re both more than capable of mischief on a regular day, and holed up together--  _ I did not mean it like that, Jesus, Stiles! _ ”

 

There was no way of telling what Peter thought of the exchange, but in that moment Stiles was glad the werewolf was limited to an amused huff. Stiles’ face was hot with embarrassment as it was. 

 

“Don’t even think about it,” Stiles warned him just in case, once they were behind closed doors and far from his dad’s hearing range.

 

Peter rolled his whole head at him, snorted, and then commandeered the bed.

 

“Those were clean sheets, you mutt!” Stiles complained, but all attempts of pushing Peter off failed, and the only thing he got for his trouble was a face full of fur, and a gust of rotten meat breath.

 

“We’re getting you mints,” Stiles promised into the nape of Peter’s neck and decided to join Peter for a nap. 

 

Somehow, they settled into a routine.

 

In the mornings, Stiles would wake up either with Peter’s wet nose pressed into various patches of naked skin, or insistently kicked in the kidneys. He’d grumble at the wolf and swat him away with varying levels of success until he’d be ready to roll out of bed. If he didn’t get pushed out of it first.

 

Breakfast was next and that was an ordeal of its own since Peter The Wolf was as picky as Peter The Human, yet Stiles refused to feed him anything that could be harmful for his current body. There was no way of knowing if his werewolf healing would even kick in before they’d do damage and Stiles refused to take responsibility for that.

 

Stiles’ dad made it all worse by trying to take advantage of the situation and arguing that they could all have some real bacon in that case. Which left Stiles facing two grown men making faces at him before he even finished his first cup of coffee. Ugh.

 

Then Stiles would push Peter out the back door to take care of his business, while Stiles took a shower and decided on merits of putting on real clothes without prying wolf eyes.

 

After that it was either sitting hunched over old tomes reading as much about fae, curses and transfiguration spells as Stiles could handle, with Peter occasionally snuffling against his neck to point out something of interest. Or making Peter binge watch TV shows and awful horror movies with him between lunch and dinner preparations.

 

There wasn’t that much they could do in Peter’s current situation. Peter wasn’t a dog to walk on a leash, no matter his friend’s jokes, nor could he even pass as a dog. There was a ferocity to him that would have passersby paralyzed in fear. Stiles' neighbors were already giving him dubious looks and only his dad being sheriff saved them from people calling the cops or animal control on them. 

 

Though that might change if Peter didn't stop terrorizing Mrs. Johnson's poodle. 

 

“I don’t care where it pees, Peter! Why are we even having this conversation?” Stiles wondered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. Honestly, it felt more like he was babysitting a toddler with every passing day, “I know that being a werewolf means that you have certain instincts, but do you want to end up a wolf-fugitive hiding from police in the woods?”

 

Peter ignored him, marching back into the house, and Stiles would swear down that the answering tail swish was  _ mocking  _ him.

 

After three days with Peter making like a spoiled cat, John decided that he liked the werewolf better that way. His mistake, though, was voicing the thought out loud. The next day he spent half an hour in search of his car keys only to find them in one of his boots covered in spit. Stiles just shrugged, not looking up from the grimoire spread over his lap in order to hide his amusement.

 

“You have only yourself to blame,” he informed his dad, absently scritching Peter behind his ear, where the wolf was spread on the bed next to him.

 

“No more steaks for you,” the sheriff said, pointing a threatening finger at Peter.

 

Stiles waited for the sound of footsteps to fade before he looked down at the werewolf, Peter’s muzzle pressed close against his hip. He tugged on one ear, as much in reprimand as to get Peter’s attention.

 

“Try to be nicer to him, hm? He can throw you out and your apartment doesn’t have a very practical nor partly secluded backyard where you can hang out. Besides,” he added, quieter, a bit wistful.

 

Blue eyes opened to watch him, waiting for him to continue, but Stiles just smiled briefly and went back to his book.

 

It wasn’t the time.

 

Peter nuzzled against Stiles’ hip, obviously aware of what Stiles wasn’t saying, and allowed him to continue scratching his ears. 

 

Peter was a menace and made a game of being high maintenance, yet he was usually above petting and he’d snap his teeth at Stiles if he even so much as looked like he wanted to rub his belly. But when they were stretched out like this, warm and content and close, the wolf didn’t seem to mind if Stiles scratched his scalp or under his chin. 

 

Just as he didn’t mind all the times before, when he could drape an arm over Stiles’ waist and drag him close.

 

At least the nose dragging against Stiles’ nape in the morning was still familiar.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks, three torn newspapers, one broken chair and a noise complaint later, and Peter was still very much a wolf.

 

\---

 

They went to the clinic late in the evening, just after closing, while Scott was still there. But Deaton didn’t have much in the way of good news.

 

“It’s best to give it more time,” he said, and promised that he was already looking into solutions.

 

Scott pushed Stiles out of the room before he could demand an actually helpful answer, Peter rumbling angrily as he followed them to the car.

 

“Seems Peter got the fairy really bad if he’s still stuck like this,” Erica mused, when Stiles, Scott and Peter joined the rest of the pack at the loft and relayed what they had been told.

 

Peter bared his teeth at her in a snarl and she answered with a sharp smile of her own. Peter was just agitated enough by that point that he might have lunged, but Stiles quickly stepped between the two, letting Boyd drag Erica away.

 

“We don’t chew on friends,” Stiles admonished, pulling Peter over to the sturdy armchair the werewolf had claimed as his own a long time ago. 

 

Stiles didn’t intend to sit in it, simply wanted to put some distance between the two before trouble ensued, but Peter seemed to have other things in mind.

 

He tripped Stiles, sending him into the chair with enough forethought that Stiles didn’t hurt himself while flailing. He was just a gangly, messy heap of limbs trying very hard to scowl at Peter who oozed of smug, as his friends laughed at the picture he made.

 

“You know, he’s actually much more likeable as a dog,” Isaac said with humor.

 

This time, Stiles didn’t even bother to stop Peter from pouncing, and took his time righting himself in the chair before he plucked the remains of Isaac’s scarf out of Peter’s jaws. 

 

\---

 

The very next day, two hours before dawn, Stiles and Peter went back to the Preserve. 

 

Stiles didn’t inform anyone of the pack of his plan, which might not have been the smartest move, but it was the reasonable one. 

 

In the weeks of research on fae Stiles found that the best time to find them was either the moment between “the dark of night and dawn’s first light” or twilight, as the sun dips below the horizon. So arriving a few hours before the former gave them a bit of time to scout the place where Peter got hit, and after, they had a whole day to check out the woods before twilight.

 

And if they didn’t make it home after that, well, Stiles’ dad would come back from his shift to find the note Stiles had left him. Just in case.

 

He wasn’t worried though, armed with some iron and defense spells, and with Peter at his side. And if he had a few snacks and a blanket suitable for a picnic in his backpack, well. They’d be wandering all day, they would need a break.

 

There were a few things the lore agreed on when one wanted to find fae and belief was first and foremost. And seeing as Stiles met his fair share of supernatural beings in the last few years, and had various relations with a choice few, he was pretty sure he got that one covered.

 

Plus, he had a living victim of a fae’s tantrum trotting a few paces in front of him.

 

They used Peter’s nose to track the smell of bluebells and ozone, while Stiles was on the lookout for fairy rings and between points that could be doors to another world. 

 

Stiles also alternated playing sweet bell chimes he recorded on his phone with singing softly, since music was supposed to be one of the things that drew fae out. He felt a bit self-conscious about his voice, not really used to singing for an audience. No matter that said audience consisted of a man trapped as a wolf and fae they wanted to draw out. 

 

But Peter didn’t react past the initial surprise obvious in the way his ears perked up the moment Stiles began to hum a bossa nova his mom had loved and used to sing while twirling Stiles around the kitchen. 

 

It set the mood, somewhat, for their hunt. Much more a walk in the woods, over unbeaten paths and empty clearings that hadn’t seen visitors in a long while. Stiles was guilty of zoning out more than once, catching himself only when Peter nudged him or he tripped over a root or a rock. Both instances made him shriek and flail uncontrollably for a minute.  

 

By the end of the day, Stiles’ voice was shot and his feet ached, and Peter was very proud of the buck he had hunted down for Stiles. 

 

Honestly, one moment Stiles was following Peter’s tail, doing his best not to trip anymore in the dying light of day, and the next Peter was off like a shot, so fast that Stiles didn’t have a chance to follow.

 

Lucky or not, he didn’t have to do more than call Peter’s name a few times, heart trampling in his chest, and then Peter was bounding back to him again. As much as he could  _ bound  _ while dragging a deer behind. He dropped it right at Stiles’ feet.

 

Stiles gagged a little.

 

“Thank you,” he choked out in the face of Peter’s obvious excitement, fresh kill and all. There was tail wagging involved, “But next time you want to take me to dinner, curly fries and milkshakes woo me a lot better.”

 

Peter tilted his head at him, either considering or frowning, then turned around and headed back in the direction of Stiles’ car.

 

“Hey!” Stiles called, jogging after him, “You are not getting into the Jeep streaked with blood! Go find a stream or something first! I refuse to clean up deer guts from the seats.”

 

But the demand was met with a wolfy scowl and Peter wiping his muzzle against Stiles’ pant leg.

 

Stiles narrowed his eyes at him. This meant revenge.

 

\---

 

It was surprisingly easy to get Peter into the bathroom. A simple, “You need a fucking bath, dude. No animal blood on my sheets,” had Peter snorting and climbing up the stairs without a fuss.

 

Yet somehow it took Peter a moment to realize just what exactly bathing would entail, what with no opposable thumbs to get the water going, nor hands to grab the soap. So by the time Stiles locked the door behind them and had everything set up, Peter’s ears were flat against his head and he looked resigned to his fate.

 

Stiles tried not to laugh at the obviously uncomfortable wolf, but couldn’t stop himself from telling him to hop in. He rolled his eyes at the glare he received, but Peter didn’t complain beyond that. Just “hopped” gracefully into the tub--

 

Only to slip and hit the edge with his side.

 

Stiles couldn’t really be blamed for laughing.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” he gasped between giggles, while he plopped on the toilet seat and started messing with the faucets to get the water temperature just right. 

 

Soon enough he was biting the inside of his cheek, wishing he hadn’t left his phone downstairs and could snap a picture. Because wet wolf Peter Hale, who was so big he filled out Stiles’ bathtub to the brim, looked equal levels pathetic and adorable, even with the promise of murder in his eyes. 

 

And that was even before Stiles got to the shampoo. 

 

Though Stiles got splashed with water before he even considered giving Peter a foamy mohawk.

 

But as he continued cleaning Peter’s fur, getting rid of blood and grime and everything else that got tangled in it during Peter’s two weeks as a wolf, Peter seemed to relax into it.

 

There was no snapping of teeth, no growling, even the pout went away. In fact, Peter seemed almost drowsy and pliant under Stiles’ hands. 

 

He knew that Peter liked him a lot, had been aware of their mutual attraction for a while. But it was only then, with Peter allowing himself to be completely vulnerable and open in front of him, that it struck Stiles that Peter trusted him.

 

His heart skipped at the thought and Peter made an inquiring sound, fur slick with shampoo as Stiles rinsed it out. And for a moment it was hard to breathe.

 

“You owe me at least three zombie movies for this,” Stiles told him, forcing on a smile, for once glad that Peter couldn’t call him out for deflecting.

 

The werewolf gave him a long, knowing look and then took care of the sombre mood by climbing out of the tub and starting to shake vigorously before Stiles could do as much as shout  “no”.

 

“I’m so hosing you down next time!” Stiles threatened as he wiped down his face. He was completely drenched from head to toe.

 

Peter snorted, then shook some more before Stiles tackled him down with a towel.

 

\---

 

Another week passed with no trace of the fae or a way to turn Peter back. 

 

And Peter, well, Peter changed, but not in a way any of them liked.

 

\---

 

It was little signs at first, things that Stiles wrote off as werewolf instincts, because how could he know?

 

_ How could he know? _

 

Their daily routine didn’t change: waking up to dog breath, whipping up breakfast with a lot of meat for Peter and sugar for Stiles.

 

(“I cooked it just the way you like it, you mutt. You could at least woof in thanks.”)

 

Peter pissing at trees in the backyard as Stiles showered, then books or movies, lazing about all day. Every few days they’d meet with the rest of the pack, to hang out more than to check on Peter, but Stiles wasn’t the only one worried in any case. 

 

Stiles, for his part, missed the easy back and forth he had with Peter. Missed the smirks and the amused tone of Peter’s voice. Even as a wolf, Peter’s sass game was strong, but so much more got lost in translation between huffs of air and growls.

 

So Stiles tried to compensate, talked more, ran himself hoarse reading books out loud. And Peter listened, the way he always did, alert to the change in the cadence of Stiles’ voice.

 

But sometimes, when Stiles looked into his eyes, he found them lacking. Then he’d blink, look again, the thought gone.

 

\---

 

In the beginning, Peter had been incredibly human, even on four legs. He'd tried opening doors the human way, always punctuated with irritated little huffs and sighs when, instead of opening, the doors remained steadfast and Stiles had to come over and help. 

 

There were little things and big things, but it was always in his eyes that this was different, that he was still human. 

 

It scared Stiles when he noticed that, more and more, Peter would race ahead and sit by the door, or paw at the crack and then look over at Stiles until he opened it. That he’d catch Peter looking ready to beg for scraps at the dinner table.

 

Gradually, he wasn’t acting like Peter anymore, but like an ordinary, domesticated dog. More and more of him got lost as he remained trapped, slipping into an animal state of mind, right before Stiles's eyes, becoming unrecognizable in the same body that Stiles had come to associate with Peter's cunning mind.

 

It was nice, in a way, to just cuddle up to Peter, to have him so obviously happy whenever Stiles entered a room. Peter trotting up to him, his tail wagging and giving away his excitement even as he demanded to be touched. It was fun to run around, to chase Peter when he’d steal one of his socks, watch Peter terrorize pigeons and rabbits. 

 

It was so much fun that Stiles sometimes slipped and forgot who it really was, and he’d turn from Peter the Wolf searching for Peter,  _ his  _ Peter, to tell him something funny, to make a jab or two. To ask a question about werewolf instincts and face empty air, words stuck in his throat. To face a wolf in place of his almost-someone, handsome face replaced by a muzzle, eyes still so incredibly blue, but void of what made Peter human.

 

A lot of the time, Peter acted like a puppy. Always happy to roll over for a belly scratch or ecstatic to play fetch or go for a walk in the Preserve with no intent of hunting down magical beings. 

 

Sometimes, though, he’d bear no resemblance to a domesticated dog. 

 

He’d sit on his haunches and look every bit the majestic wolf he was. When he’d stare at Stiles, eyes so vividly blue and fierce, he would resemble those amazing nature photos and paintings of wolves Stiles so often saw in his research. 

 

In those moments, it was almost impossible to forget that this was an animal that should never be treated as commonly or familiarly as Stiles had been doing over the last couple of weeks. That it was an animal that commanded respect, and Peter was trapped in there somewhere. 

 

Sometimes, Stiles would stare back, for as long as he could until his eyes would burn and even then a little longer. It felt like he was seeing Peter, his Peter, in that stare, when not even so much of a hair was moving on the wolf's body. 

 

It felt like they were having a conversation, only Stiles didn’t know what was being said.

 

And then Peter started to turn less and less docile and much closer to how a real wolf should be.

 

It got to a point where he couldn’t be inside for long stretches of time or he’d break things in his panic to get out, chew through doors to escape. He got restless, needed to go and hunt more and more often. He’d be on edge a lot of the time, though he’d always let Stiles trail long fingers through his fur, or scratch between his eyes or under his chin. For whose comfort though, Stiles wasn’t sure.

 

Mornings were always the worst, Stiles found, when he’d wake up with Peter sprawled over him like a blanket. But when he’d reach out, still half asleep, expecting to touch warm skin and stubble he got fur and wet puffs of air instead. Snuffles in place of a groggy voice telling him to go back to sleep. 

 

He’d curl up close to Peter and do his best not to break apart.

 

Two months went by like that, with Peter losing his humanity and Stiles doing his best not to tear at the seams, and it became apparent that there wasn’t much that they could do. Deaton offered a few potions and spells, each of which Stiles double checked, but they were of no help. And Stiles’ own attempts weren’t any better. They didn’t know if there even was a way to fix him at all.

 

Stiles struggled with the decision: did he keep Peter with him, bound to one day snap and possibly attack his dad, one of the pack, or Stiles himself? Or did he let Peter go? Open the door and watch him run off, catch glimpses of him in the Preserve, hear him howling in the night like a memory of what they could have become?

 

Stiles was at the end of his rope, hope almost completely gone. He was running on sheer stubbornness, lashing out at anyone who even suggested giving up, even if Stiles was guilty of considering it himself .

 

\---

 

It was an unusually cold night, when Stiles sat on his back porch, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and Peter dozing at his feet. 

 

They’ve been sitting like that for the past hour, after they got back from a run through the Preserve. Peter caught another deer, but didn’t offer it to Stiles this time, hungrily tearing into its belly. He even snapped his teeth at Stiles with an angry growl when Stiles tried to beckon him away from the carcass and into the car. 

 

It was the first time Stiles was scared of the wolf that seemed to have almost completely taken over the man.

 

Peter whined at him, a low, pitiful sound, coming back to himself in the face of Stiles’ distress, so obviously sorry for what he did. He kept close after, through getting clean in a stream and the ride home.

 

But then he got that panicked look once they got inside, one that Stiles quickly learned to recognize, and they were out in the open again even if only in the confines of the Stilinski backyard. 

 

The moon was high and huge, bright and making Stiles so incredibly sad. He thought about that, about transformations and change, and things that stayed the same or those, that didn’t get to be.

 

He longed and wished, fingers buried in Peter's mane, for his Peter to come back. For them to be back where they had been before this dreadful summer had even begun. 

 

“Please,” he begged the moon, feeling ridiculous for it and all the more defeated, “Please, give him back.”

 

Because this was it. This was the night, he swore to himself, the last night he held Peter trapped.

 

He stayed outside, wrapped around his wolf until the sun peeked from behind the trees, the light of day still dull, the sky still so grey. And he let himself cry into the fur that kept him warm.

 

He let go only when Peter started to squirm, restless, didn’t protest and just buried a kiss into the fur of his head.

 

Stiles didn’t watch him go, loop through the back gate that was left open the night before. He went back inside and locked the door.

 

\---

 

“He held out this long only because of you, you know,” his dad said on the third day, as he watched Stiles try and fail to do some of his summer reading.

 

Stiles remained silent, eyes steady on his book, until his dad sighed and pressed a kiss to his temple before leaving.

 

He wasn’t sure if he found the words comforting at all.

 

\---

 

It was a week later that Stiles was dragged away from his nest on the couch by loud knocking on the door. He opened it, squinting at the sun, and it took him a whole minute to recognize the scruffy, disgruntled man, standing on two legs and arching a brow at Stiles’ pitiful state.

 

Like he could talk, naked and dirty as he was.

 

But Stiles didn’t care. None of that mattered when he could throw himself at Peter and finally hold him in a proper hug. He reeked of things Stiles didn’t want to think about, but that didn’t stop him from hiding his face in Peter’s neck and sucking in a deep breath. Even if it meant his own face would be dirty.

 

Peter laughed at him. Pushed them inside and locked the door. Wiped the tears from Stiles’ cheeks, only dirtying Stiles’ skin even more.

 

“I need a bath,” Peter said, voice scratchy and rough, like a wolf’s growl, “And then, I think I owe you curly fries and milkshakes.”

 

Stiles laughed at that, loud and shaky, like he didn’t know he could. And then he kissed him, the way he wanted to months ago, the way he thought he wouldn’t get to kiss him at all.

  
  


END

  
  



End file.
